Of Wolves and Dragons
by Bellaria
Summary: A three eyed raven. A three headed dragon. A pack calling. Voices whisper, Winter is coming.
1. Chapter 1

I guess it caught me and with no exams on the fore at the moment I feel I can write again.

I hope that you enjoy it, it is rough and unedited, so all mistakes are mine. It is somewhat similar to my one shot, but this is an actual story... let's hope the inspiration stays and the other one doesn't tickle my brain too much.

Enjoy, for here there be Dragons.

Bella x

* * *

 **-X-**

 **Prologue**

 **Who are you?**

" _Who are you?"_

 _Faces flash before her eyes, loved faces of blue eyes, grey eyes, red hair and dark curls. She sees the Heart Tree and the weeping face, she sees trusting golden eyes and a head thrown back to howl at the moon._

 _A three eyed raven calls to her._

 _She blinks._

 _"I am No One."_

 _"No you are not, who are you?"_

..

'Come home,' the raven calls to her. 'Come back.'

She sees a lovely face, pale and shining with tears.

Feral eyes hopeful but wary.

She hears a howl and feels a longing for her pack, so strong, so longing and she wants to run to them.

She sees him standing and waiting, calling to her as she calls to him.

"I am Arya Stark, Daughter of Winterfell, she-wolf of the North."

Leaving the house of Black and White was a trial of bruises and blood, but still she left with a sack of coin and a fine, slender sword upon her hip.

No One is the face she wears, and for once in the wake and dream of memories the face feels a unnatural as it first did. But she knows the value of a face though, especially of her face, and so No One she is.

No One finds herself in Port but none will take her where she wishes to go. And so she barters passage to Gulltown.

Different roads lead to the same castle.

And so they travel, the sea is rough but those who she barters passage from are sea hardened. Luckily she has experience within the water, on boats and ships alike of blending in through her years and so they accept her help for lightened loads and after the first lad who tries to touch finds himself with a dagger at the point between his legs, they find respect for her.

Nights are spent drinking ale and playing cards, she wins as many hands as she folds or loses on and laughter and acceptance is strong. She is careful though and sleeps armed with her knives and sword. For though she binds her chest and resembles a boy in some aspects, she is well aware that men do not often care. But the time passes without incedence as she reads faces and eyes and sees beyond what they intend to show and most are decent, as decent as can be and she leaves it at that.

It takes several weeks to reach GullTown and No One becames a boy, Arry and disappears into the crowd, just another face.

Arry gathers gossip and rumors and picks them apart to search for truth.

Arry hears rumors of the Red Keep and the horrible Cersei Lannister whose face haunts nights and days. How she is said to be mad with power and blood. How her son, her last living child, King Tommen died in the fires of the Septon with his Queen.

Arry also hears of Ser Ilyan Payne and his conquests and battles and his travel through the lands. Rumors of the Lord Baelish and the Boltons and shudders at the thought of the state of Winterfell and the Eyrie in their wake.

There is gossip of Ser Jaime Lannister in Casterly Rock and having control of his seat, he is said to sit neutral now. Ignoring his sisters calls as he deals with the ruin and the shame brought by his sisters madness.

Talk of the return of the Starks and the bared teeth of winter, defending the North. That raises hope.

But then there are rumors of the arrival of Dragons, long thought dead, and their white haired queen, said to be called mother and saviour. Of the white haired prince, her nephew. Of snakes from the sand and a loyal army of freed slaves, unsullied and dorthraki horsemen.

Dreams come, the voice of past in a three eyed raven while sleeping in the cold cot of a small inn, and then it is decided.

Wolves howl.

Arry the boy barters for items from the market, a heavy cloak, food and water skin, and a horse and rides into the night.

Travelling in the night is safer, once when younger, in earlier days, even though denying it, fear would come.

It would be covered by sharp words and a defiant air of a young, naive child. It almost makes a smile rise.

Fear cuts deeper than swords.

Now though, the night is not feared, it is welcomed, growth and maturity acknowledges danger and discards it. There are far worse things out there.

The darkness is a friend now, it hides what becomes of her face as No One recedes, and without a still surface nor the desire to seek, she lets it be.

In the day she hides in trees and listens to the roads talk. The kings road is not the same as when she first passed along it as a reluctant guest to Kings Landing, nor the second as Arry the orphan to Castle Black. But gossip comes and she uses it to find her way.

It is on her fourth night of travel that she hears the howling, louder than before, that she sees the shadows and a smile is upon her face.

She slides off the horse not worried as it whinnies and shies away, but soothing it anyway as out of the woods there comes a shadow, a mix of dark and light, of smoke and snow, golden eyes peirce the darkness and tears come to her eyes.

There is no breath, for between one beat and the next her arms and face are buried in dirty thick fur and breath comes in sobs. Of relief, of gratitude that her friend, her wolf is here and she forgives her for sending her away. For being cruel to send her away to safety. For she has called her home because she knew better than even her, that she needed it. Uncaring of stained muzzle and dirty fur she rains kisses upons Nymeria's face and thanks all the gods that be that she is here and unharmed.

Nymeria is the size of a pony now and wider still and she supposes it lucky that she is small as she is, for the horse bartered for is old and slow. Though in thanks for its service, she does not allow the pack to eat it as she turns it free.

Travelling is better and they stick to the trees. She uses Nymeria and her smaller cousins sense of smell to keep track of their path. Soon though in the safety of pack of three hundred she finally takes luxury in bathing in a river by moonlight. The water is cold, colder than normal, but Stark blood is strong and she is determined to be clean again. Nymeria splashes in with her and an hour is spent scrubbing herself and the direwolf down. Years of stains are lessened and gone, knots are teased from fur and hair and both become clean by moonlight. Breaches, linen shirt and tthe boiled leather tunic are scrubbed and hung over branches to dry, leaving her in wet small clothes as she exits the water to build a fire and dry.

Meat from a hunt brought by a cousin, is cooked and shared with Nymeria as they dry, her wrapped in a thin wool blanket and Nymeria behind her, damp but warm.

It is nice to be clean and hair is dried and braided back before settling to sleep.

Travel takes only a day more and her brethren are anything but silent as they near the camp.

Their calls are wild and free and sing of untamed power, calling deep within Arya's soul, for the wolf is part of her and in her blood. She walks among them and is part of them that part of her sings with them too as Nymeria races across snow.

Another shadow runs closers and Nymeria is joyful, Arya feels her elation and happiness, but does not seeks to know. She is exhilarated by the run and laughs, tucking her face into thick fur to hide from the cold.

The camp is waiting and alert upon the dawn of daylight, thousands of men who stare into the woods with stern faces and raised swords. Arya grins in feral delight as they hesitate at the sight of so many wolves, cream and grey, silver and white, black and brown and red.

With but a thought from her, the pack stands as she and Nymeria make their way forward.

The now obvious white shadow beside her, gives her hope, he is larger than Nymeria by half a hand and white, his eyes a deep blood red. She feels no fear, only hope.

For she had heard the rumors but to have it true, no matter what dreams enforced it, to see him was the start of a confirmation.

Two people of white hair, one pale and one tan are before them all, and they watch standing together.

Arya looks to the Mother Of Dragons who is as small as she, her long white hair braided back. She wears a thick fur cloak over what looks to be a silk dress and pants. Her face is beautiful and sharp, of high cheekbones and pouted lips, her eyes a shade of violet so bright and piercing. She is a light beauty, as lovely as Arya guessed Sansa now was with her bright beauty. She holds her chin high and her air is that of a queen and Arya can see why they follow her.

After a drunk, a violent teen and a weak boy, she is the picture of strength and care.

Though still Arya wonders about those cities she burned in wroth at slavers.

The Prince beside her who is said to be her nephew, looks her age and is just as beautiful. He is tall, a head and shoulders more than his aunt and tanned and broad. He stands tall like her brothers and his mouth is firm though as if it is ready to smile. He has a strong jaw and high cheekbones, his hair falls to his shoulders and his face carries three days at least of whiskers.

And a third stands beside them and it makes her hold her breath for a moment. she had hoped, and seeing Ghost she had hoped some more.

She trembles.

He is older now but still him, long face and high cheekbones, serious and solemn and Stark. His jaw has strengthened in maturity and is covered by a short beard. Clothed in black and charcoal she can see his body has grown to, broad shouldered and strong, taller slightly than the blonde man. His black curls are tied back and she can see his eyes, and they are wide and she hopes, hopeful.

The queen steps forward, "who are you?"

Her demand is carrying and her men are frowning, ready to defend. Only he stares at her and waits, and she sees his fear that he could be wrong.

"I apologise your grace," she offers humbly. Her years and experience have taught her courtesies and their use, and she respects a woman who will fight and defend her people, speaking rather than allowing men to do so. "I mean no harm."

She lowers her hood, and hears her name.

"Arya," part prayer, part relief and then he is stalking across the snow, seeming desperate and happy and there and she is off Nymeria and in his arms and she feels like she is finally home.


	2. Chapter One: Smoke and Shadows

So another chapter, this one was harder. and then obviously I went back and tweaked it a bit so it's half books, and haLF HBO.

Yet again, no BETA, rough and mistake ridden.

If you like review, thanks for all the follows and favourites so far.

* * *

 **Chapter One**

 **Shadows and Smoke**

To Jon, waking in the flames, was if waking to a nightmare.

In the dead of night he sees those flames and the red woman, the hated priestess, chanting in her haunting accented voice.

The feel of his brothers mutiny cuts, far deeper than their knives. The false brothers.

The red woman praises him as the Prince that was Promised, of being the Lord of Lights chosen.

But it was not she who called to him in those flames. Who called him back.

It was not her lips on his forehead, her arms about his shoulders, her voice in his ear.

The soothing and haunting voice, that sang like a sailors siren to him, husky and deep, lilting with culture, dancing with accent.

She called from tthe darkness and brought him to the light.

Not the red woman.

He is recovering when the dreams get stronger and wolves howl and the night is cold.

 _He runs through the forest on four paws, huffing breath, the snow cold in his nose and on his ears._

It is freedom and moonlight and the hunt. the sound of calling cousins who sing a haunting song but he gives no reply. Instead he listens and learns.

And so too comes the dreams of her voice.

 _He can see a field of white and cold, filling with lions and three headed dragons and an army of wolves. Roses and Lions are crushed beneath the feet of the dragons and snakes twine about their larger cousins and spit at Lions and choke climbing roses._

 _And the wolves howl and bay at the moon, and snarl at enemies and drown them in lood._

 _A three eyed raven joins her calls and it pulls to him as it tells him, not yet, wait yet._

It is anger that comes to the fore when Jayne Poole arrives, frostbitten and beaten and Arya's imposter. He is happy to know that it is all a lie but angry to see her, she is battered, bruised and her eyes hold a wealth of pain. He does not urn her awa, but he will not look at her.

When the letter comes from Ramsey he is enraged and angry.

He snarls at the Red Witch who tries to manipulate him, Tormund at his side as they leave the wall with four thousand wildlings at their back who refuse to follow any but him, they had spat upon Stannis and sneer as his red woman.

Jon is released from his vows upon the ending of his life and he takes his big black dessertier, Longclaw at his hip, Ghost at his side and he hopes and he prays to the gods that he finds her.

He wonders at his own darkness as he kills Ramsey Bolton. But feels only grim satisfaction at it all. He had killed Val so heartlessly that Jon felt it only right tp repay the favor.

His beast inside, awoken by the fire is a vicious and blood thirsty predator, it is fire in his veins and prowls within his skin. At times if he is not careful, he prowls as more beast than man.

And that is what he shows at times. The Wildlings give him a wide berth but do not try to control him.

He is not afraid of it, it is a part of him now, but he is concerned.

He is surpised though, when he is named King of the North.

At the reappearance of Bran and of Rickon he is thankful, for having thought them lost. Half frozen, half starved but men almost grown and wise to the ways beyond the wall.

Rickon is as wild as they come, his wary eyes and often bared teeth give him an air of danger. His wild curls are untamed. His body is strong and it is as if he cannot feel the cold, but Rickon is injured

Meera, the girl with them is a Craggonmen, her hazel eyes are sad but they watch Bran with a fierce and protective sharpness that lets Jon know he has been safe and loved. She keeps her curly hair short and pulled back and wears breeches, cloak and tunic.

Bran is wisdom and steadfast eyes of knowledge. If he had his legs he would stand as tall as Robb had, but his presence is larger to make up for it. His wild tully auburn curlsare pulled back by a leather tie and his blue eyes are grave but happy to see them. And he speaks with the three eyed ravens voice as he tells Jon what he has learnt.

It is heavy news. Confirmed by Howland Reed of the Craggonmen.

It takes time to sort out thoughts and feelings and make sense of it all. And it does, he understands and he knows now.

The pull of change gets stronger. Its under his skin and has him looking to the south more.

News comes, the death of the Frey's, the nature of which is disturbing but satisfying, it says revenge and he wonders who has done it. Ser Ilyan Payne too, dead in his sleep in a tavern.

Jon is standing in the godswood, before the heart tree when Bran comes to him.

"She is coming," he intones solemnly, his voice though is hopeful, wistful. "Stronger than we know, and she calls you as you call her."

Jon's heart clenches in memory. His beast paces in his chest, he feels beneath his skin the pull, the tug.

"I could not have called her without you," Bran continues, voice thoughtful. Jon feels there is more to this, but Bran does not add to it.

"She is alive." He states more than he asks, because he has felt her and felt the tug and pull since he left for the wall. It had been faint then, but as years passed it grew, it was what pulled him to go to her.

And though it ended in pain, blood and fire, he does not regret it.

"For a long time I could not feel her, she was far away, and she changed, shifted, pain, hurt, shadows and darkness," Bran's voice is grave.

Jon knows of shadows and darkness, he knows of pain and hurt, but he feels as if there is yet more that his cousin does not share. His beast is restless, his hands clench.

"She needs you now more than they will, they need her more than they know."

He does not understand _they,_ until they come.

Rumors of salt and fire bring them, Bran's tale of secret love and a babe convince them. Howland Reed confirms it.

Aegon welcomes him, a lonely man desperate for home. Jon can see in him, some of himself. It is somewhat slow to build a friendship with him. They are different, Jon logic and strategy and somber, Aegon passion and learnt and smiling. But it is nice to have a sibling who does not deny him when inconvenient.

Daeneyrs is beautiful, and he would be a fool not to notice. But she does not call to him and she knows it. She has traveled far and was Khaleesi of a great Khalesar, her methods for freeing slaves are questionabe even if her motives are admirable. Sansa and her do not wholly get along, they respect one another, but Jon sees his red headed cousin's moments as the queen talks of her trials.

The two Targaryens discuss their plans of the iron throne and retaking Westeros and he tells them of white walkers. At first they scoff and call them tales until Bran coolly points out that dragons were tales once too.

Jon smiles slightly, looking to the fire as he thinks of excited grey eyes begging for tales of Dragons and warrior Queens. Queen Visenya and Queen Nymeria were favourites and on wild nights, huddled together he would whisper them to a captive audience of one.

And they would stay in his bed through the nights she could not sleep and it would be a secret for she sought him out in her nightmares and he never turned her away for her tears. She was one who always needed him, wanted him, ever since she was born.

He breaks from his thoughts by a cleared throat and Bran's knowing gaze.

The Targaryens grow serious as Jon explains the danger, their weakness of fire. His experiences beyond the wall and his description of the Night King turn them grave.

They are wary of the Starks and their part in the rebellion, Jon explains how Lord Eddard kept him safe with the lie of a bastard. He tells how he had been an honourable man who thought to protect his beloved sister and kept her secret to protect her babe.

The Stark's explain they hold no love for the Lannisters nor those that butchered their father in false lies. They explain briefly of traitors and liars, when pressed for more on his story after the explanations of green dreams given by his power, Bran just looks at them with wise eyes and shakes his head.

Rickon still restless and in pain, scowls and pats Shaggydog with his good arm, the wolf is fierce, Rickon is to his experience with Skagos has made him wild and untameable. Osha, the wildling woman with wide eyes cares for him and Ban with a loyalty that speak of time and fear. Jon knows they are lucky to still have both with them. Rickon especially, too young to know his parents fully, to young to understand all that had occured until now.

But the Stark's share how they only wish to remain independant and to rule the North as Sovereignty to protect the wall. They will give aid as they can but expect assistance in return.

Bran is brilliant and wise, his help is invaluable and the agreements take several days, especially upon the Targaryens request.

They envoy him to join them, they legistimise him, King of the North, Prince of Westeros. They ask for understanding that the rest of Westeros is theirs, they request men for their army and backing of their claim. After a week of council of dragons and wolves, terms are meet, agreed and he goes.

Their army is strong and many.

Upon meeting Tyrion Lannister again, Jon shakes his head, the one lion to always land on his feet. The short man of golden hair, looks older as one would after some years, still blonde and sharp. But seems to watch the world more carefully than before.

Ser Barriston nods his head solemnly and speaks of his Lord uncle with respect in his tone and regret on his face. His grey hair and tan skin add testimony to his abandonment of the Kings Guard following the introduction of Joffery as king and joining Dany across the narrow sea.

Ser Jorah is quiet and stern his face is lined with seriousness and his eyes are of an old knight wise and cautious.

Jon Connington however, almost bursts a vein upon his arrival, and won't look at him without sneering. His beloved prince was slain for loving his mother. Jon cannot hold it against him even if he wanted too.

The camp is vast and many people from all of Essos are congregated. He finds it an interesting mix.

When he meets his dragon, he is speechless. The cream beast Viserion is massive and vicious.

But he calls to him, the beast is a part of him and it accepts him.

For the next week the pull goes stronger as he learns to ride and command his dragon.

This is also when the howling starts.

Men shift and move at night when the sounds of a hunt come, but Jon feels no fear. He stands at the woods edge with Ghost and he waits in the night.

For several nights the howls carry and they are joyful, they are the song of the pack.

When they come though it is in the grey of rising dawn as it makes it way over whitened fields. The trees cast shadows and they make men jump as the howls grow.

Jon can feel it in his chest, the rising song and it pulls at him. More so when Ghost leaves his side, dripping elation and joy into his emotions as he bounds in the shadows. He knows more than Jon and his excitement is obvious.

Dany and Aegon join him as he waits, men are at their backs. He does not exchange the looks they give him, does not answer their silent question.

Jon is to entranced by the song to note them, he is half dragon yes, but he is also half wolf and they call to him.

Their shadows and glowing eyes make men shout, he holds up his arm to still bows and swords as they emerge and stop as one. There are many beasts, creams and golds, greys and white, browns, blacks, reds, each carry fur of winter and a feral look. They are a real pack, one licks blood from its maw, as two snap but do not fight, and others watch them with a freezing cool intelligence of a predator.

They stand still, lined up as if they are an army. He wonders where their alpha is.

Finally Ghost steps out, white in the snow, red eyes gleaming and so too does a shadow, grey and white, silver and charcoal. The large wolf is proud, regal and alpha and her golden eyes are haughty.

She halts before them, Ghost beside, but Jon cannot focus on her.

His heart is pounding at the blue cloaked figure upon her back.

And he hopes and prays.

 _Please,please,please,please,please._

He has the distinct feeling that as the hooded figure looks over the gathered men, that they are amused. But also assessing as an army of eighty thousand that watch them and their pack. Many of whom were still lurking in the woods.

Dany steps forward, head held high, "who are you?" her voice is commanding and authorative.

The person appears pleased. As if expectations are met and kept.

"I apologise your grace," the voice is low and feminine, sultry and lilting and he knows it. Like the hunter he is, he goes still in anticpation. "I mean no harm."

Her hood lowers and he starts moving, _"Arya,"_ part prayer, part hope, part relief.

Her face has matured, still long and heart shaped, but angled with cheekbones and lent grace by fine, expressive brows. Long lashed eyes bat gently, they're grey like the polished steel of his blade, beautiful and sharp. Small pouty lips are red as cheeks blush pink with cold on sun touch pale skin with a long and graceful neck, she has grown into her fierce beauty in unexpected ways. Chestnut brown hair, that is almost black, once short and messy and tangled is now shining and long, to her waist in its complicated triple braid, loose pieces free to drift about her face.

When he got beside her, he doesn't know. What he does know is that she has grown, not much in height, but definitely in body.

She is lean and long slender limbs that wrap around him and a small trim, waist lean and hard that he is sure he could encircle with both hands. Her chest is woman and he can see more than a few men, including his half brother staring at her form clad as it was in long boots, breeches and a tunic.

But this moment is theirs and he wraps her in his cloak as she buries her face in his shoulder beneath his chin, "Jon,Jon,Jon," she whispers and he holds the back of her head, kissing her forehead and hair, stroking her back, turning away from the crowd to hold her tightly.

To keep this as private as he can. This is their moment.

"I've missed you so much," he whispered. His voice is soft and shaky.

"You called me," she murmurs softly and then she pulls back and laughs happily, he can see tears kept at bay and know she laughs to stop from crying.

He smiles, pushing some hair out of her face. "Come."

The others watched them approach, him tall and dark and fierce, and her small, and lovely and feral.

Their eyes and cautious and curious, for some, its like seeing a ghost a woman of two and twenty years ago.

Jon Connington can feeling himself paling as he looks at Lyanna Stark's ghost, she is a reincarnation of her. It makes his guts twist as they had upon seeing the King of the North. Just as lovely and beautiful as Lyanna.

Dany looks at her and sees what Jaeneyrs has been missing. The beast beneath his skin is still but focused and completely on the small young woman. She is the dark to Dany's own bright beauty. That intensity and focus didnt even seem to disconcert her.

Aegon sees beauty, those eyes are sharp and dangerous, her face is graceful. She seems as if she were writ in stories like his own light aunt, this strange wolf princess.

Tormund sees a wildling wolf princess, fierce and lovely and wild and knows she will be a woman to follow.

Arya smiles at them and pauses. Her curtsy must surprise Jon, for it is untraditional from the way it is a half bow, but she has learnt how to be anyone, to be No One, and it has been handy. Even if she did despise it.

"Greetings your Grace, I am Arya of house Stark of Winterfell," she smiles politely, and straightens.

Dany can see the fine sword at her hip and her confidence of step, this woman is not unlike her nephew's kin from Dorne, for all that she is of seven and ten. Behind her stands her other nephew's Ghost, right beside the alpha female.

"Well met Princess Arya," Dany smiles, but wonders at the flash of her eyes. "You seem to have quite an army to your side, what brings you here and not home to Winterfell?"

She watches the way the two stand close, and the way he looks to her with a smile and feels her heart clench in response.

The slender woman looks up to the Prince, the King of the North and there is a moment, a conversation between the two, before she turns back. "Many roads lead to the same castle your grace."

And they watch as Jon smiles for the first time before them.

They retire to Jon's tent, Arya and Jon walk ahead of Aegon and Daenerys and people stare as they pass.

The two are in a silent world of communication of looks and head shakes, arched brows and smirks, light touches traded and it is something that is intriguing to watch as it is a realisation of their close relationship.

Once in the tent they remove cloaks and Dany realises just how small the princess is, she is at least a finger or two shorter than her own height, and she is all lean limbs and muscle.

"You kept it," Jon's eyes are drawn to the slender sword at her hip. It's scabbard is beaten and grey but the slim hilt shines. It is accompanied by knives strapped to her legs.

Arya smiles softly at him, "it is the only needle I ever loved."

He smiles and offers her a seat as well as Dany and Aegon, he leans against the desk near her chair.

Dany is curious about her, about the lilt to her voice and where she has been, most had thought her dead.

"You have traveled far Princess," she watches her, "many thought you lost to Westeros."

They all pretend not to notice Jon's hands clenching on the desk.

The brunette though sends him a slight look before nodding her head gently to the Silver Queen. "Just Arya please, titles mean little to me," purple eyes see Jon's soft smile and understands slightly why by the affection and wistfulness.

"I was lost to Westeros," she shares with a slight frown, "I was within the free cities."

"You were across the Narrow Sea too?" Aegon questions. "How did you get there?"

"For a time, but I could not be there forever," she smiles somewhat bitterly, somewhat wistfully. "A man gave me a coin, but it is done now."

It is obvious she does not wish to speak of it, her jaw is clenched and her eyes are chips of ice.

"And the wolves?" Dany entreats, not wanting to isolate an obvious asset or incite Jon's wroth, for his eyes are dark in the face of her discontent.

At this, the girl smiles, "my pack will not bother the camp, they hunt away from us, they were recently fed so do not fear."

The two giant direwolves who have made themselves a comfortable at her feet, raise their heads to be stroked by slender fingers. "Nymeria gathered them, they obey us, but tell the men not to wander, they are not tame."

Daenyers and Aegon nod watching the way the great beasts close their eyes in pleasure, alot calmer than the dragons, but a different kind of dangerous altogether.

"How good are you with your blade?" Aegon is curious. He sees her body is fine with muscle, her walk was graceful as she had walked before them and it raised his blood. She is attractive, beautiful, he and many others had noticed.

Arya's smirk is amused, he has been looking at the blade with curiosity, the knives with an air of wanting to know, she had been waiting for the question. "I'm good enough your grace, masters are aplenty in the free cities."

Jon though is restless, for so long he has waited, he would like time with her himself, "if we could beg leave your Grace? Arya has been on the road for a long time, and we have much to talk about."

Dany isn't happy to be dismissed, even politely but nonetheless the two blonde haired Targaryens leave them. She thinks to send the girl some extra clothes to wear, hopeful to gain the womans trust, they may need her to keep Jon.

She makes plans to speak to Ellaria.

Arya smiles up at Jon as they leave, and he kneels before her so slender fingers can trace his face, "I thought you lost," he murmurs.

She smiles at him, her eyes soft, it is not her sunny smile, not the smile she gave on days to cheer him up after yet another reminder that he was a bastard in days before he knew the truth. Nor was it a smile she gave after he cheered her up from either her sister's childish taunts or her mother's recriminations to behave like a lady. This smile was soft and caring.

"I was for a while, but you wouldn't let me."

"Where have you been?"

"I was in Braavos," she shrugs, tracing fingers through his hair, fingers loosening the tie that held it back. He closes his eyes, he used to brush and braid her hair for after her many adventures in the godswoods. She'd come a tangle in dirty clothes stolen fromher brothers and her once tidy hair a nest of twigs and leaves. And he'd wipe her face and braid her hair so the punishment would not be as severe for yet again escaping her sewing lessons.

In return she'd comb her fingers through his hair, smiling for their shared hair color. The mark of the north in them both. He remembered once when she was small being sad that she wasn't like her sister, graceful and soft spoken, that she couldn't sew, how her mother despaired over her curls, and how she wasn't like her sister.

He knew that she was often intimidated by her sisters looks. How one too many times of her mother lamented over what man would have her so wild and unruly, not a true lady, her hurt and humiliation turned her words cutting, " _then I shan't ever be a lady_ ," she'd cried.

He'd comforted her, he'd never understood how he and her father were the only ones who saw her as she was, fierce and promising to be beautiful.

He'd told her she was beautiful and that her mother was just frightened for her. Lord Stark told her she was of his aunt, she too grew into herself, and one day he knew she'd be beautiful.

Small hands had held his cloak tight that day as they sat in front of the heart tree, " _You love me as I am, you'll always want me won't you?_ "

" _Aye, little wolf, I always will_."

Those small hands catch curls on them but are gentle as they comb.

"But why?" he wants to know where she's been, what has happened, this solemn wolf is grown and changed, but like he promised, he always would want her as she was.

"To forget," her voice is soft. He feels that there is more to what she hasn't said, but still her answer makes him grimace. "You wouldn't let me go though."

"I wouldn't," his voice is fierce, his arms move to bring her to her. He is afraid that if he lets go she slip through his fingers like smoke and shadow. "You belong home, here with me."

He does not think on the words as they come, but he feels more than anything that they are right.

"Of course," her voice is so indignant and firm that he expects her to tack on, _'stupid',_ she doesn't, but it still makes him smile.

"You called me back too," he admits as they sit on the floor together. Grey eyes turn to him in question.

"I died, you heard?" for a moment rage burns in her eyes, her jaw clenches, Nymeria's head raises from being draped over her brothers back, a wolf howls. It seems she is a moment from jumping up to rage but instead she hardens her jaw and nods tightly.

He cards his fingers through her free hair, running his hand down her braid to soothe her.

He looks to the wolves, both are staring at him gold and red, "I had heard news that the Bolton's had you," his lips twisted.

"But they didn't," her voice is soft.

"Aye, little wolf," he tightens his arms about her and she lets him. As he remembers his fear of her disappearing.

"My men saw me as a traitor and raised mutiny for trying to go to you, they stabbed me through and left me to die. And I did."

Small hands clenched and her growl is echoed by the wolves. "Don't leave me," she whispers, her voice is frightened and small.

"Never again," they both know he can't wholly promise it, but he'll always make his best attempt. He squeezes her and relaxes again, leaning against the heavy chair, her half laying on him, their legs stretch before them.

"I died and I woke again, it was to fire. The red woman says it was because the Lord she worships had bade her to call me back, but she's wrong." He looks down at her, "it was you, you told me not to leave, you told me to come back to you."

She is silent, but she leans her forehead against his chest and tightens her arms about him for a moment.

Soon they move to other topics, she dances around her time in Braavos but she looks worried, so he will not press for now. She talks of seeing the cities of Meereen, Pentos, Yunkai and Estapor. The peoples, her sailing experiences, trading with merchants and learning the languages. She speaks of seeing Dorne and being amazed at all its colors in such a golden place.

They move to the table for dinner as a servant arrives to find them each leaning against the wolves, the servant makes no comment of seeing his grace smiling and looking more relaxed than anyone has seen him.

When the servant leaves they dine and it is Jon's turn to speak of the wall, he talks of his brothers, Pyp and Grenn, of Sam and the Commander Mormont. He speaks of Alistair and of Maester Aemon. He speaks of times over the wall, with the wildlings and white walkers.

He hesitates on Craster and the babe.

Manse and his camp.

He stumbles over Ygritte and her death.

Arya squeezes his hands with her own small ones, their laying as they had as children, facing one another and trading secrets, both have removed boots and swords, and her hair shines of coppers and blacks, of mahogany and white blonde, a myriad of colours beneath the light of the braizers. There is no fire, Jon emanates more than enough heat now that it is not necessary.

"Did you love her?" her eyes are solemn.

He thinks over her question, she lets him and he remembers Ygritte. Her teasing him for being a crow, her teasing him for being the bastard son of a Lord, raised well in what she said she reckoned was a ' _fancy castle_.' Mocking him about being his lady and sneering at the term, calling him ' _pretty lordling_ ', her seduction of him in a cave, the lust he'd felt for her body as she took control, ' _you know nothing_ '.

He didn't think it was love, not really, not the same, he didn't think she loved him either. He lusted for her, that was true, he enjoyed her with, he cared for her and mourned her death.

"I cared for her, deeply," he admits his thoughts, "she cared for me too. But love, no." He still felt sadness over her death, over what could have been, he had been honest with the priestess when he said he still had feelings for her. But he never would've laid with her, even if that weren't the case.

Arya swallows hard, she remembers tan skin, black hair and blue eyes and a long faded crush on a a boy. "I thought I loved a boy," she whispers softly, looking away, "I didn't, not really, it was a crush."

"What happened to him?" Jon ignores the squeeze in his chest, he tells himself it is her sadness that does it.

Arya licks her lips, "I've met your red witch. But it took time, a long road." She pauses for a moment before taken a steadying breath.

"I was there when father died," her voice is soft and her eyes look through him as she speaks. Trapped in memory.

She explains running and getting Needle after watching a slaughter, how she killed a boy who thought to use her to collect a reward. How she ran from his information of her father's capture, how the Lannister's were chasing her. Then her listening to rumors of Jory's death before her father when on task. Listening and hiding was her night, huddled, afraid and hungry.

"I had been hiding in the city, gold cloaks had attacked my water dancing teacher as we practiced, he defended me and I escaped through catacombs. Something was wrong and fathers men were killed," her voice is hard and angry. "The people talked, they spoke of how the kings hand was being trialed. I followed.

"The septon was full of people and I climbed upon a statue to watch. I can still see them up there Joffery, the Hound, Cersei." Her voice is icy in its anger and Jon cradles her face, stroking her cheekbone softly as a tear trails unchecked, hoping to comfort. "They held Sansa as they made him lie. I tried to get to him but Yoren, a nights watchmen recognised me and caught me. He was going to bring me to you."

She talks of his beheading, of the stillness and silence and then her sisters scream and seeing her fathers body and the executioner holding his head up for the crowd and Sansa feinting.

The rest of the story is sad, pretending to be a boy surrounded by rapists and murderers, an older boy protecting her, finding out her secret, keeping it.

"He called me Mi'Lady all the time when no one was around, I always pushed him over." Jon smirks.

She then explains the gold cloaks and how they killed Yoren, looking for her friend. She then talks about having lost Needle briefly and how they beat and scared them on the road to Harenhal. She talks of their torture of prisoners, her experience before the mountain. Facing Tywin Lannister and Jaquen Hagar's promise.

Her voice is soft when reveals her fear of being found out and then her escape only to be caught by the Brotherhood without Banners thanks to Sandor Clegane. How there was a trial by combat and the Hound went free.

His mind reminds him of this Brotherhood being apart of Daeneyrs men now.

She talks of the resurrected man and her voice is empty as she talks about how the boy fixes the man's ruined armor and their confrontation.

"He said that they were like a family," she smirks bitterly. "It was what he wanted."

He feels angry at the way he dismissed her offer to be her family, the mocking way he'dpointed out their differences. He is well aware of how that offer, shy and full of her usual kindness, had cost her, how his rejection of her, hurt her. He holds her head to his chest as she seeks comfort she'll never admit to needing.

He knows her heart is big, how she makes unlikely friends of small folk and lowborns in all walks of life. How she used to talk to them and never look down her nose at them. The kindness to him always on the outside of the rest of the family, even with Robb who'd he'd been raised with as a brother, but never with her.

She perhaps understood him best, her who was on the outside as much as him, for her look and her wildness. Who understood better than the others her mother's sharp tongue and Sansa's disdain. Her brothers loved her, but Robb was exasperated with her asking to be taught sword fighting, Theon's comments never helped, Bran's jealousy of her ability to take to fighting and shooting arrows, Rickon was perhaps best to understand her wildness, but his Lady mother kept him close.

Jon understood her best just as she understood him best.

She continues to tell him of how they planned to ransom her and teaching her to shoot a bow and arrow.

The appearance of the Red woman, and her trade with the men of Gendry for gold.

Jon can't help but feel grim satisfaction of this occurrence.

Arya finally stops talking and sighs tiredly. They lay in silence for a while.

"I dont want to tell you the rest," she whispers, "not yet."

"Okay," he agrees. His head is reeling with all he now knows, her fear, her horror, her strength. He is so thankful, more thankful than ever that she is there with him.

"Will you stay with me?" He feels as if there's more to the question than he knows. He knows it's probably improper, but he can no longer care, he needs her and she needs him, he is reluctant to leave her.

"I will."


	3. Chapter Two: Allies and Loyalty

**Another day, another update.**

 **Not easy, so please tell me what you think.**

* * *

 **Chapter Two**

 **Allies and Loyalty**

Jon wakes to solemn grey eyes, Arya faces him, her head on his arm as she looks up into his face.

He smiles softly at her, "I'm here."

A squeeze of her hand about his bicep and a nod is what he recieves in return.

If he hadn't woken often to check she was with him through the night, he would swear she hadn't slept. But her eyes are clear and her face holds no shadows.

"I will not leave you," she promises back.

He swallows, holding her eyes, solemn and serious mirror to his own, he kisses her forehead.

They rise, he moves to wash his face, removing his tunic for a fresh one while Arya unbinds her long hair as she goes. He should care that he is doing this in front of her, but can't seem to find a reason to not, maybe it is her closesness to him last night, the reactions of him this morning. Either way he does not want to lether out of his sight.

He is turning from his morning abolutions just as she sits with Nymeria and Ghost. Her finger reach to stroke their ears and heads gently as two serving men enter, followed by Daenery's interpreter and friend, Missandei who carries what looks to be clothe.

As the serving men set the table, Missandei bows her head as she pauses before them, "Your grace," her voice is clear and accented. She wears a heavy cloak and boots over her dress and breeches, similar to what the Sand snakes wore that many of the women in camp have taken to wearing for convience.

"Missandei," he nods in return, the girls is well spoken and intelligent.

Arya stands, as the woman faces her, her curling chestnut tresses over one shoulder as she gazes at her once before nodding her head ath the woman.

"The queen asked me to bring these for you Princess," she addresses Arya rather than Jon and he can see that Arya is amused and open to this. Very rare is it to be addressed over the male in the room when they are ranked higher. But Arya must've done something to receive the respect.

Missandei sets down the clothes and Jon can see several sets of long tunics and dresses and breeches all warm and in shadow colours. He sees that Arya is not shy in her approval.

"Missandei?" she calls as she notes the woman is turning awah, smiling in the fact her job is done. "Please tell the queen..." her next words are someting Jon doesn't understand, but Missandei does.

The often solemn womens face is transformed into into a smile, eyes bright, "you speak high Valarian Princess?"

Arya nods, "a little, not well, but a little."

Misaandei is still smiling, "you do speak it well," she corrects looking happy, "I will tell the Queen."

And she leaves, Jon can't help but be amazed at Arya's ability to make friends with such ease, to win them over as she has Missandei with just a few words.

She moves to the bed and touches the clothes, "the queen seeks to make me happy, to keep you happy." Her smile is thoughtful.

He arches a brow, he wants her happy, he wants her here. While it is somewhat grating that the silver queen has stepped into providing her with something he could have done, he is thankful for the thought. Even if her reasoning concerned him.

Dany was smart, she was tactical, he worried for Arya.

"What did you tell her?" Jon sweeps his thoughts away for now as he asks this and he pours them both water, handing her her glass as she nears the table to take her seat.

Arya takes a sip, still staring at the clothes, "I asked her to tell he queen thank you for her kind hospitality, that I would welcome a change of clothes."

Jon smiles at the diplomatic and graceful answer and takes his seat. "You have grown little wolf."

Once she would have been awkward and unsure, once she would have lashed out at the gifts, seeing them as a way to turn her more into a lady or some such thing. Now she sees them for what they are, more than Jon would have.

"We all must grow," her voice is soft and hesitant.

He takes her free hand and squeezes it. Reminding her of his promise.

They dine on soft chese and bread, dried fruits and some tough salted meat as they talk about lighter things, and her smiles are soft and his are rare and warm.

She counsels him as he talks of the law and politics in camp. He entreats her to join him for it, her intelligence and logic head would be more than useful, to which she tilts her head.

"People will not follow fully unless they know you," she traces her finger lightly about the rim of her glass in thought. "To have trust and loyalty you must first earn it," she smiles up at him as he watches her. "Your free folk follow you through your actions to help them, your crows through the experiences you share with them. The Stark bannermen may follow both of us but honestly you are male, they follow that and I want them to follow you. The Queen's follow her through loyalty of their freedom and understand that she provides them with protection in a way that they have never before experienced. The Prince his men through loyalty, the fact he is Targaryen and also a male."

He nods, he can see the wisdom in her words, can hear her father in the sense of the words, her reasoning and logic. Lord Eddard's men had followed him through his own loyalty to provide the best for his people, to be honorable and not ask of them that which he would not he himself do.

He is impressed by the way she states this all and is intrigued by the matter of fact tone, this warrior winter Queen who sits before him, her unbound, lovely face thoughtful.

"You are on your way with them," he answers, "your pack is impressive."

She smiles at him, and looks away as if searching for something far away. "Father said that a lone wolf will die, but the pack survives. Nymeria gathered them, she knew I needed pack."

Jons heart clenches, he can't say why but he feels afraid, as if she'd leave him in that moment with his pack. "I am your pack," his voice is low, he wants to keep her forever with him, and she looks back at him, grey eyes lighten.

She stands and moves to him carress his hair and face with a smile, "of course you are," she cards her finger through his hair before tying it back for him.

"We will always be pack," she smiles as she moves around and pecks him on the forehead, her lips linger. "We have always been pack," she moves back and touches his face, bringing her forehead to his, they share their air, long lashes flutter as she promises again, "I will not leave you."

He smiles, bringing her hand to his lips, to kiss her wrist lightly in thankfulness. It is an intimate touch, but neither seems to mind, a thousand words pass in silence.

They will always be a pack, one would not walk without the other and they knew this.

She just retakes her seat as a man announces himself, requesting Jon's prescence for the council.

He stands, brushes a thumb over her cheek and leaves to seek out his aunt and brother.

* * *

Dany is still thinking over the thanks that Missandei had delivered from the princess. The way she had delivered it in high Valyarian is of interest. The fact that she is impressed by her accent and states that the girl knows others jugding by her common tongue and Valyrian accent, Dany wonders.

She appraises her nephew who sits dark and brooding, his normal faithful direwolf is absent, but he seems fine despite that development. He looks the same as normal, slightly sour, but solemn, his mind though is only half on what is happening in the room she is sure.

He is a smart and logical man, a tactcian with experience for war and a capacity to think beyond what is to occur next, a trait he is teaching to his half brother.

Aegon is older but still somewhat wild and impulsive, charming and intelligent. For so long his company was limited to port and ship, making a rather limited ability to experience life. Dany has often had to remind him to not be rash, he will grow into his position if he continues as he has. She has also had to stop herself several times from snapping at Jon Connington, a man who was loyal but narrow minded to a fault. He pushed for things long past and his disdain for Jon's presence was obvious to everyone. It was as Arya was brought up he was no longer able to restrain his sneer.

"The wolves could be useful," Tormund, the wildling was a bear of a man who had sense and intelligence and a roughness to him. She appreciated his ability to see things as they were, "the Princess is a strong Warg especially to control that many and they can be good as scouts."

The word Warg is an unusual one, Daeneyrs had learnt it while meeting the Starks and the slight demonstration by the young Prince Bran had been fascinating as it was alarming to watch him enter and subdue Drogon's wonders if Arya was as strong as her brother.

What Tormund indicates is a valid point, wolves could travel faster or at least cover more ground with senses alone that could give more information than men. More covert than dragons as well.

Most are nodding, their fight with Stannis Baratheon on one side and the Lannister mad queen on the other, with the threat looming at the wall close by, meant any advantage was a good one.

"I beg of you, your grace," Connington pleads to her, "no good can come of her presence. She should be sent back to be with her brothers. A Stark may only bring ruin to house Targaryen."

A low snarl reverberates around the tent and all present go tense at the sense of intent for violence that enters the room. an echoing roar of enraged dragon following it.

Dany tries to stay calm, focusing on the silk brocade of her dress beneath her fingers,it is a lovely item, the colour a light lilac and silver, her wool breeches are dyed a deep lilac to match. But still her attention remains on the stillness to the room, the once begged for quiet, she watches as Jon stands, looking angrily at the man and the feral rage within him is real.

Dany well remembers of the usurper and the assistance by house Stark who had been desperate to retrieve the daughter of their house. She is aware of his disgust he had made public at the actions of the usurper towards the killing of the Targaryens and the manner of which it occured.

The fact that Connington has in so many words, insulted Jaeneyrs mother and his cousin in one fail swoop, the one woman who matters to him more than anything else, and done so openly will not give Jon cause to respect him at all. He accepts the disdain to him personally with enigmatic grace, but Dany suspects that to do so to the Princess, will earn whomever the wrath of the King of the North. His Bannermen in the room, loyal to the Stark's look fierce and angry, Ser Davos, Lady Brienne and Lyanna Mormont disdainful. Connington is not making any friends in this now.

At that perfect moment, as the violence increases to the point that she half expects her nephew to leap the table and haul the other man up by his neck, his men behind him, a direwolf enters the tent, the great shadow of an alpha female is intimidating as she stalks towards the enraged man, but like a puppy she butts her head against his arm gently.

Fingers touch fur gently and the violence choking the space eases.

"Arya may look like her to you, but she is not my mother," Jon stares Connington down, "I understand your disquiet around me, I have not cared, but I will hear no such thing against her. Am I clear?"

Dany looks into the wolf's eyes as he speaks and can't help but notice the human intelligence that is fleeting as it tugs the man's sleeve gently between huge teeth.

Connington is silent, but nods.

Jon sits again and the tent is silent for a moment before Tormund clears his throat. "Well, now that's sorted, what of increasing the men's skills?"

And the talks move on.

Aegon she notes, throws Connington a curious and exasperated look, but she tries not to focus on that.

That is a gaze that speaks of an earlier argument.

They move on.

* * *

Aegon resists the urge to snap at Connington yet again for another grumble about the wolf Princess and wished for once the man didn't know him so well.

He had seen his interest in the Princess the day before and has not left him alone about it since. Cursing her existance, telling him that no good would come of her being there, that she was a ghost of a past best left where it was.

Even now walking among the tents back to his own in an attempt to escape the man's comments he followed muttering under his breath about her. Aegon respected him dearly, the only father figure he'd known really, but he was trying him. First with pressuring him to propose to Dany, then with his disquiet over the arrival of Jon to the camp, whose existence he had denied until he saw him in the flesh.

Then he argued with the way the council determined their movements. Ever since they had started to make progress to gain the Iron Throne, it seemed that the man was not happy by all the unexpected variables set before them.

Such as Dany's announcement that she was barren, unable to bear children. She would be queen, he would be a king to her, consort, but she would keep her lover and he would need to take a sister wife to bear their heirs.

The fact that Jon was a prince and also King of the North, declared by his Bannermen, bequeathed to him by his own Cousin within his will, made Connington even more unhappy.

Even Septa Lemore was becoming disgruntled at the mans inability to move with the tide.

A cheer raised, caught Aegon's attention, pulling him from his thoughts and he deviated his path, waving off Connington with annoyance.

In the area of the Sand Snakes tents, his cousins, it was not unusual to have them fighting and practicing, but it was odd to have such a crowd since the initial introduction of them to the camp.

A cheer raised again and Aegon made his way to the front of the crowd only to have his eyebrows raise.

Lady Arya was within the yard, her hair in yet a more complicated braid, pulled back from her face to reveal it in its entirety. Her slender form is clothed in a garb similar to many other women of camp, a mid thigh length blue tunic held in at the waist by a thick silver belt that is plated and intricate as his aunt's when she deigns to wear it, and breeches with tall boots. Her only denote of rank, is the long and fine shadowcat fur gloves she wears, the matching cloak discarded. Her head is high and she stands side on, sword aloft as she practically dances her fight with Nymeria of sand.

The women move in quick succession, but it is obvious who is winning.

Then Arya pauses, "don't," she warns the other, "that's obvious." And seeing something others watching don't, she flips back and out of the way of the whip that has appeared in Nymeria's other hand.

But then she is holding the end of it and she yanks, wrapping it around her slender wrist. Not expecting the move, the Sand Snake falls before her and finds a blade at her throat.

"I yield," the loser smirks in admiration. Aegon's cousins respect those who fight, women more so and especially those from what they disdainfully refer to as northern waifs.

Arya smirks, "dead."

She releases the whip and offers a hand as she sheaths her sword, the Sand Snakes smile at her as Ellaria Sand ans Ariennae Martell step forward and the three talk in ernest. The crowd disperses, all except for Aegon, Connington who watch and Jon, who moves to join them.

The Sand Snakes look at him in surprise but accept him with an ease as the princess lightly touches his arm, squeezing it, without even looking at him. Aegon can't see his face, but he can see the way he looks down to her.

His brother has the air of the angry beast inside him and often it follows him like a shadow, his men respect him, crows and free folk and those loyal to the Stark name. But most others are disquieted in his presence as if he were a dragon roaming in human form.

But with Arya at his side it is so intent, so focused, that they accept him with her presence.

It makes him jealous to see their closeness, but he will not come between that. To do so would obviously only upset and isolate Arya from him and enrage his brother. He would need to be smart in approaching her.

Decided he looks at Jon, "we need them, you will no longer speak of this."

He gives them one final look and turns back to his tent.

* * *

Arya has always been untamed, always more at home with a sword and bow than with the feminine pursuits pressed upon her by her lady mother. She had been like that since a child and often Jon would encourage her when they were alone in the Wolfwood helping her, his uncle had been much the same. He would let her sit with him as he sharpened Ice before the Heart Tree, and he would help her with the bow when he caught her practicing before sending her on the way with a wink and a pat on the head.

But back then she was a child, happy and laughing and full of mischief. Now she is older and experience shows.

Her intensity, her wild spirit so completely focused, calls to the beast within him. He sees in her the violence, mixed with her kindness, that pure heart as she offers her hand in friendship and it is a combination that makes the beast turn languid in him and it is that which calls him to her. He doesn't resist.

The Sand Snakes accept her so easily it is interesting to watch. She talks to Ellaria about helping the younger ones with sword work, she speaks to the Obara of her knives and the two compare the ones the have, exchanging one each as a good will gesture.

They sit and dine on soft silk pillows in Arianne Martell's own tent. Arya shares of her experience of Dorne and the Heir of Sunspear and the Sand Snakes happily listen as she shares her experiences in Planky town and her travels to Sunspear. They enjoy her outsider perspective.

"You should see the morning pools Princess," Ellaria offers. The politics of Dorne are different to those to the North of them, and Ellaria and Arianne respect one another deeply. He suspects due to Ellaria once being the lover to the dead Prince Oberyn Martell, Arianne's brother. "The castle of Dorne is surrounded by sand and the pools provide respite where they reside in the gardens, they are a splendor to behold."

"Just Arya, please," she smiles. "I have heard of the pools, I would love to see them. But your Dornish sand horses are said to also be spectacular they are said to be faster than any other horse in the seven."

This brings smiles and Ellaria nods her head, "yes Princess," she smirks at Arya's good natured pout. Jon has a feeling that this is a battle Arya will have to let go. "the horses we breed are fast and sure footed over sand, but they would not withstand the cold and snow like your dessertiers. You ride well princess?"

Arya looks to Jon and smiles, "my sister used to tease that I was half horse, but yes, my lord father encouraged it." She used to also call her Arya Horseface too, but she doesn't bring that up, but he knows shethinks of her at this moment, her eyes are wistful and sad, only he sees that for a moment before they clear.

Ellaria reclines on her pillows and sips at her wine, smiling.

It is Arianne Martell who speaks next, "when the fighting is done princess, it will be an honor to have you visit us."

"I thank you your grace, that is a kind offer that I would be pleased in accepting."

The offer is heavy, Jon knows. The Dornish do not trust easily, but they respect strength. They respect Arya. Whether they trust her yet, remains to be seen.

It is just as he starts to get restless that she makes their excuses, final arangements for the morrow are made and they leave, her arm through his, their wolves at their side.

The Dornish watch them go, her small and fine, him tall and broad.

"What do you think?" Ellaria's husky voice is soft.

Arianne shrugs gently, "time will tell. But to ally with the wolf princess would not put us at a tactical advantage."

* * *

Two days pass with Arya sharing Jon's tent and bed, he finds it harder to fight down his reactions to her especially now that the relationship of kin is changed. If it were unknown he'd think his tastes similar to that of the Targaryens.

But she is his cousin and he burns for her. The way they sit close or lie in the bed and exchange stories has changed yet not from when they were children. Except instead of his retelling of storiew of battles long past they discuss further what has happened.

He talks of Sam and Gilly, of how Sam used to make him annoyed until he woke up to what a good friend he was. He talks of Mance more and explains Val, how he turned down Stannis's offer for her hand.

"She was not his to give, she was not mine to take."

She speaks of the Hound and her experiences traveling with him.

His fists clench her hair and on her back as she lays half draped over his chest while she tells him of the men they came across raping women and sacking houses.

He kisses the crown of her head and holds her close as she sleeps that night, staring at her and thankful, so thankful she is back.

In the mornings when they wake, he knows she knows of his awareness, but aside from looking at him with her solemn grey eyes, she says nothing.

He wonders if she even knows what it means.

After they are both washed and dressed, they sit to dine, Arya passing meat from her plate to Ghost and Nymeria with an affectionate ear rub.

"I will be taking them to see the pack today," she comments. "They need to run and the pack need to feel connected."

Jon feels himself still even as he realises her solid logic, she is right that the pack must feel connected, he has seen her slips into the pack mind often to check on them, to soothe them as best she can. But the pack needs to have their alpha.

"Do you need to go with them?" he tries to sound even and normal as he spreads the soft cheese onto some bread and hands it to her. She takes it with a smile.

"No," she bites her lip, "but they are mine to look after."

He nods again. "Will you go while we are meeting,?"

She nods, stroking Ghosts head as he lays it in her lap gently, "yes, Ghost needs a wash," her voice is amused.

He nods feeling chargrined as he can see the dried blood on his companions muzzle. He watches as the great beast, known for being standoffish and feral accepts her gentle kiss to the head like a docile puppy.

If he had thought about it, he would not have slipped into Ghosts mind while she was gone, or maybe he wpuld have done so sooner.

Nymeria was paddlling like a puppy in the river that was a fair distance away, the wolves he can smell through Ghosts senses, further away but protective of her, and so to her privacy. Ghost is feeling languid and content, scrubbed by the alpha two leg. He paddles about her lithe form as she too bathes.

Jon is so surprised he is thrown back into his body and it takes restraint to not throw himself back in in the middle of a council. Containing his reaction is just as hard, especially with what was in his minds eye.

The water covered up to her hips and she was standing almost side on so that all he could see was her well muscled back, two dimples at its base with a tiny waist and slender arms as she gathered her wet hair off her shoulders.

He breathes through his nose and closes his eyes, luckily the arguments have grown heated between the minor lords so it can be passed off as annoyance at them.

He breathes deeply, fighting for control before reopening his eyes, this council cannot end soon enough.

* * *

Arya dodges one of a younger Sand Snake, Elia's sword as it arcs towards her, catching her on the off, to twist her blade and fling the girl's from her hand. The young one stumbles and falls onto her back.

"Dead," Arya smiles,holding her blade to her throat.

Elia laughs, shaking her head.

"You are a fierce warrior, Princess," a voice speaks and Arya straightens as she hauls Elia to her feet with an offered hand. As she turns she finds the Queen watching her, Messandei beside her, Ser Barriston and Tyrion Lannister.

"I thank you, your grace," she curtsies as do the snakes.

"I was hoping we may talk, come, walk with me," she wqves.

Arya bows her head, " I shall see you tomorrow, keep practicing, she smiles to the young ones.

As she reaches the queen they walk until the reach on of the largests tents, half of which is open and it is here that she is offered a seat, immediately left to the Queen. An intimate setting for ones who are not quiet known to one another, but not to the right as to indicate to high of favor.

In her head, she can hear her mother despairing over her sitting with the queen while dressed as she is, it almost makes her smile.

"I have to say, your skills are impressive," the queen breaks their silence as servants set dishes before them.

Arya blinks, "I thank you, your grace, I have had time to perfect them."

In return, she looks amused. "My men are quite interested in your sword style, they say it is of the Braavosi, the water dance."

"Tis true your grace," Arya concedes, "Jon, his grace, gave me my sword, my father, gave me a teacher."

Lips quirked, she smiled, "strange thing to give a lady."

Arya smiles herself, "I was never a lady, not the way my mother would have. Sansa is the lady."

Purple eyes are shrewd and Arya stares unafraid into the depths, this woman is intelligent and smart, she has men willing to fight and die for her at a moments notice, Arya would be a fool to underestimate her as she was sure many others had.

A soft smile, "you miss her?"

Arya sips her water, "yes, your grace, every day." She gives a wry smile. "We fought more often than not, but we had our moments."

"I had a brother," Daenyers intones, she can see the sadness that the Princess wishes to hide, but does not, she respects that. She wants to share some of her history in return, "Vaserys. Unfortunately he was the flip side of the coin," here her smirk is bitter at the term. "We were raised together in Essos under a care taker, he was the only family I knew at that time. But he was cruel, and he often struck me. My husband killed him for threatening me and our unborn child."

She looks to see solemn grey eyes staring at her, there is no pity in her gaze, no false sympathy. Arya Starks eyes stare into her own, "you hated him," she states, Dany blinks. "Forgive me, your grace," the princess stands and bows her head, "that was out of line."

Rather than being offended, Dany is relieved that she understands, in a way not many others would. Perhaps not by experience, but rather by perception of how bad things could be. "It's quite alright, please, sit." The brunette sits, her hands folded in her lap, Dany smiles.

"You are quite right, I did hate him. He was a fool, and a man spoiled by tales of his own puffed up arrogance," she calmly cuts some meat, stabs it and savors the flavor on her tongue pointedly. The princess too, begins to eat.

Daenerys swallows, "he did end up giving me to a man for an army, but that man I came to love, and it was by his hands that Viserys died."

"I am quite lucky," the brunette speaks after a moment or two of silence, "for all that I have lost half of them, my family held and holds love for one another."

"Love holds a power that can make one move mountains," Daenerys intones, "It is this love that is most dangerous."

She wonders if Arya fully understands the depths of one particular man's love for her.

They move onto other topics and a Dany can see why many are enchanted by her. The princess has a way of speaking, polite, to blunt, to sharp where she adapts to her partners behaviour and conversation pattern. She is intelligent and well read and passionate about just causes.

They talk for a few hours and Dany can honestly say that she enjoys the Princess's company.

She is surprised by the Princess's request to talk to the unsullied and Dothraki with herself, but the fact that she has asked to do so is flattering and shows her respect to their loyalty. She agrees and they finalise their talk with an agreement to meet on the morrow for her to talk to the unsullied, especially to Grey Worm.

As the princess leaves, she watches as she is escourted by the two giant Direwolves who appear uncannily on time to do so.

The woman has given her much to think on.

* * *

Jon finds Arya sitting between their Direwolves, Ghost curled around her back, Nymeria her front, with her head in her lap. They all look up as he enters, he has been with Viserion and probably smells of smoke and ash, but doesn't care as he removes his cloak of wolf fur to join them.

He notes the meal set on the table, untouched so far.

"Were you waiting for me?" he questions. Arya smiles and rubs Nymeria's head, combing fingers through her fur. Her non answer is answer in itself, he kisses her brow and smiles.

"The council wishes to move on the Baratheon men, their numbers depleted after he free folk and Stark Banner men came here," he cannot help but feel responsible for that, he had helped to council Stannis, and he felt like a traitor.

Arya looked at him, sitting before her, against Nymeria, his legs pulled up, solemn grey eyes serious. Small fingers grasped his hand gently.

"You are unsure," she murmurs, she has heard him speak of Stannis, of his position and help. But then the sickly girl-child who smiled so softly, the one Val called a dead child, his daughter was killed by his red witch and how Jon had banished her in response, once he found out.

Jon nods once.

Arya looks thoughtful for a moment, "life and times being as they are, to attack Stannis now would be a waste. It is better to fight for a kingdom to gain the throne, than to destroy the kingdom for one." Her lips twist bitterly, "but that is not how the game is played."

"The Lannister queen is probably the most vulnerable, but so are people of Kings Landing, the small folk are right in the line of it all and they say the city is starving. They are unused to cold and many are traveling to seek food and shelter and resent the guards who try to stop them. Taxes to the crown are not being paid and her army is small, I hear the Kingslayer is away on Casterly rock, away from this. But Cersei has the guild who make dragonfire."

Jon blinks at her in surprise, she knew more than the council did. Then Varys' little birds, "how do you know all this?"

For once she looks unsure, she bits her lip and looks away, "I have many skills now, but no one pays attention to animals of king's landing, rats especialy hear a lot, birds hear things on the side of the road."

Jon reaches for her, she looks small in that moment, as if afraid he will reject her, she comes and carefully, he cradles her to him, against his chest where she holds herself rigid.

"Do you know any of Stannis?" he asks.

Her body relaxes slightly, there is a hound that watches his tent, "He is planning an attack on Roose Bolton at Dreddfort, his men are unrest, the cold is getting to them, three hunting hunds have died in the cold at night so they bring them into the tents for warmth.

"The wall is restless, howling and calling, there are fierce winds and then silence. Men have deserted and they have not enough to bring them back. The prisoners sent from Kings Landing from the time of the Septon's outlaw of prostitution-" she cuts herself off and shakes her head.

He holds her close, and storkes her hair gently, kissing her forehead, angry at himself for asking her to do such a thing.

"I have been searching for Sansa, but I'm afraid she's out of reach," her voice is soft.

He knows that though the girs fought and often, they still cared for one another, still loved one another. Pack was pack, and you cared for pack.

Hushing her gently, he strokes back her hair once more. "What other skills have you learnt so far?" He is curious.

A small hand strokes softly against his own.

"If I tell you, I'm scared you'll never look at me the same."

His grip tightens, "never."

They are silent for a while, they rise and eat and like normal now, like routine, they pull off boots and weapons, and lay on top of the furs.

They face each other, her expression is serious in the light of the braizers, "not yet," she sighs and he wonders as he watches her sleep.

Just how bad it could be?

* * *

 **Okay so my writing style is not the classic, dialogue is difficult at times when people say a thousand things through actions alone.**

 **Also yes, Jon and Arya are the couple for this story, for the simple reason of, I prefer it now they are cousins, it is perfectly fine within the setting and period actions and I believe that they are best suited for each other. That could be bias through writing but nevertheless.**

 **I may have changed some things, as you have noticed, oh well, ths is fanfiction. I will also eventually get to further court intrigue, nothings ever smooth sailing. There is also Lady Stoneheart, Gendry, the Brotherhood without Banners, etc, etc to go. We will get there, if I don't run out of inspiration first.**

 **Thanks to those that have reviewed.**

 **Til next time.**


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